


Don't Touch

by completelyunbearable



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Mild Angst, Missing Scene, Pining, Touch Aversion, could be read as friendship maybe, honestly this came out of a note on my phone written at 1am in the dark, in which I use too many bad metaphors, so to speak, touch starvation, you can stay at my place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 00:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19414888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/completelyunbearable/pseuds/completelyunbearable
Summary: They don’t usually touch. Not anything more than a pat on the shoulder or a handshake, but Crowley wants this to change, but has to wait for Azirphale to realise first. Because there's no way he'd admit it.





	Don't Touch

They don’t usually touch. Maybe not intentionally, but aside from a small pat on the shoulder here and there, or a handshake, or a drunken hug, they stay a few careful centimetres apart. Though it has always felt further for Crowley.

Maybe he’s overthinking it, _(_ _a likely scenario as Crowley has often spent hours on end thinking about conversations or touches or expressions in minute detail, hoping to find some unknown thing he is looking for),_ but each time he feels a brush of skin he imagines he can sense a charge running through them. Joining them. Holding them together. He hopes the angel feels it too, but he would never _(could never)_ admit it.

He remembers one of the first times he touched the angel in a way that was more than a handshake. It was immediately followed by a flinch and a body full to the brim with tension. Like a rope pulled taut and ready to snap.

Crowley was used to being touched. Whenever he went down to see his superiors he was assaulted by shoves or bumps or brushes as all the demons worked their way past each other. It hadn’t occurred to him that it would be different up top. Aziraphale’s face in that moment will forever be branded in his mind. Shocked and scared but quickly covered and hidden by something apologetic and fake. The angel Mumbling apologies like he’s the one who has made the mistake. Crowley can’t help but think about it every time he considers reaching out a hand and stops himself before it gets too close. He puts his hands in his pockets as a form of restraint and keeps his sunglasses on to hide the need he knows is in his eyes.

Sometimes he can’t help it. Too many drinks deep and he loses any control he might have had over his limbs. Once, standing behind the angel while he pours two more glasses, Crowley’s arms snake around his friend’s body before he can even stop himself. Rests his head on a soft shoulder. Later he thanks the powers that be that they were both so drunk it’s only a vague and hazy memory now.

He is embarrassed to admit the surge of contentment he feels whenever the angel is the first to reach out. Like maybe, finally, after thousands of years things could begin to change. But he doesn’t like to dwell on this kind of hope lest he becomes maudlin.

Nothing feels quite so devastating as that night in his car with the holy water. Aziraphale putting into words the fear that Crowley’s been carrying on his shoulders for centuries. He can’t help but self-sabotage. Try his best not to give any hint of his true thoughts while simultaneously urging the angel to work it out and hold him the way Crowley has wanted for years.

But then a countdown begins and any hope of a slow and even discovery of such feelings abruptly leaves his body and he thinks if not now then literally never. He can’t ignore it anymore and wait for the angel to catch up. To _hope_ for the angel to catch up.

It’s like this sacred secret he carries has taken root inside him over the years but is only now making its way through his veins and into his organs. There’d always been a seedling, but only now is it coming to fruition. It’s a bud nestled in his heart, beginning to flower.

But it wilts away in the roaring flames of a bookshop. A bookshop that burns and a friend that is almost lost. The bud withers, new petals falling away. Nothing to sustain it except maybe some whiskey drunk alone in a pub.

But then.

Maybe not.

There he is.

A pale imitation of the angel, but there, nonetheless.

Though honestly with that much to drink he can’t even be sure he’s seen what he saw. The flower tentatively peers out and he thinks that this, _this,_ is hope.

The world doesn’t end and suddenly there’s vines in his limbs which become roots. This feeling no longer at a simmer but a full boil. They don’t touch but at this point the roots could be controlling him now. Forcing him to put out a hand. The flower bursts forward when it’s accepted.

“You could stay at my place, if you like”. He hadn’t meant to say it. Out of his mouth like a projectile word vomit.

He is surprised and stupidly, overly, pleased when Aziraphale agrees, as much as he tries not to show it, lest anyone thinks he cares.

He’s bone tired. Feels exhaustion seeping into every single cell. He knows they don’t touch but he thinks that of all the days to break this unspoken rule, the almost-Armageddon is as good as any. He’d be a liar if he said he tried particularly hard to stop his head from making its way onto the angel’s shoulder as they ride the bus back to London, and he can’t say he made much of an effort to stay awake.

They don’t touch but suddenly it’s all they can do. From his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder bus to an arm around his back guiding his tired form into bed, it seems neither can bear to let go. Aziraphale helps him lie down and, after an awkward flutter of his hands, goes to leave the room.

More word vomit and suddenly Crowley is saying “you don’t have to go”. _Fuck_. He isn’t this person and he doesn’t want to find out how he’ll feel when the angel still leaves. But then he doesn’t. _He doesn’t._

“Oh, yes, of course dear, if you like” Aziraphale gives Crowley a small smile and makes his way to sit, straight-backed, on the edge of the bed.

Crowley rolls over to face him and whispers a quiet thanks before his eyes slip shut. And if his hand just happens to make its way to brush against the angel’s leg, well, who is he to admit it. And if said angel’s hand closes protectively around the demon’s, who is he to remark upon it.

**Author's Note:**

> The bit about Hell being full of touches and Heaven being completely void is definitely a tumblr post somewhere which I can't find so if anyone knows please let me know!
> 
> *edit* thanks to ironiclast for finding the post! https://olivia-ivy.tumblr.com/post/185868735464/broke-crowley-is-touch-starved-bc-demons-and-hell


End file.
